your comrades’ backs； just as they will watch yours。 But most of all； there will be no heroics。 No
fool…hardiness。 No unnecessary risks。 This is Broucheroc； Larn。 There are no heroes here： the orks
keep killing them。 Do we understand each other？”
“Yes； sergeant。”
“All right then；” Chelkar said； before turning to call out to one of the Guardsmen standing beside
the stove。 “Davir。 Come over here and meet our new recruit。”
In response to Chelkar’s call； Larn saw a stocky diminutive Vardan move away from the stove
and come walking towards them。 With a sinking heart； he recognised him at once as the same ugly
dwarfish Guardsman who had given him his lasgun back after the battle。
“Davir； this is Larn。”
“We have met already； sergeant。 Hello； new fish。”
“Good；” said the sergeant。 “Larn； I am assigning you to Fireteam Three under Davir’s
command。”
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“With all due respect； sergeant；” Davir said； “given the new fish’s lack of experience； wouldn’t
it be better to assign him somewhere else until he finds his feet。 Fireteam Three is a frontline unit；
after all。”
“This whole company is a frontline unit； Davir；” Chelkar said。 “If you can think of anywhere I
could send him in this entire sector where the orks wouldn’t be shooting at him； I’d be glad to hear
of it。 Besides； your fireteam is under strength。 You need him and I am sure I can rely upon you to
look after him and show him the ropes。”
“You are right of course； sergeant；” Davir said； grudgingly。 “Come on then； new fish。 Get your
kit and follow me。 We have orks to kill； you and I。”
Turning； Davir strode away at a surprisingly brisk stride； forcing Larn to hurry his own pace to
catch up。 Then； as Davir walked through the door at the end of the barracks and headed up the steps
out of the dugout； from behind him Larn heard the Vardan muttering venomously to himself under
his breath。
“Need him；” he heard Davir whisper to himself。 “Need him； my Vardan arse！ Like I need to be
nursemaiding a damn new fish。 As though having had to spend ten years in the company of that fat
halfwit Bulaven wasn’t bad enough； now they’ve gone and saddled me with a war virgin just to add
to my woes。 Damnation！”
Reaching the head of the steps to emerge into the cold air outside； Davir turned to give Larn a
withering glare as he waited for him to catch up。
“Come on； new fish。 I haven’t got all day。 Though I suppose I should thank the heavens for
small mercies that you’ve managed to negotiate the stairs without losing your lasgun again。 Not that
I mean that as an invitation； mind。 You lose that damned thing again； don’t expect me to go finding
it for you。 You want to go around confronting orks with no other weapons than what nature gave
you； next time you’re on your own。 I’ll leave you to it。 Now； come on。 Let’s get moving and when
we’re heading for the trench； keep your damned fool head down。 Not that I’ve got any qualms about
seeing the orks blow your head off； you understand。 I just don’t want to run the risk of the damned
greenskins missing and hitting me instead。”
So it went on； with Davir unleashing a constant tirade of insults and complaints as； trailing in his
wake； Larn followed him up the low rise towards the firing trenches and the frontline。 As they ran
half…crouched towards their destination and the tirade continued； Larn abruptly found himself briefly
entertaining a notion that until a few minutes before would have never occurred to him。
Suddenly； he found himself feeling strangely nostalgic for the good old days of Sergeant Ferres。
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CHAPTER EIGHT
14：59 hours Central Broucheroc Time
Casualties of War — Thoughts on the Killing of Generals — Scholarly Answers and Insights — On
Vital Supplies & The Many and Varied Uses of Prophylactics — The Mathematics of Slaughter &
Questions of Life Expectancy at the Front — The Facts of Life as According to Davir
For once； the printing press was silent。 Though Lieutenant Delias had always considered the
constant clattering of the machine to be a source of much…cursed irritation； now it was idle he found
the sound of its silence filled him with dread。 Sitting at his desk in the claustrophobic confines of his
cluttered office； he looked across the fractured glass of the top half of the partition wall separating
him from the print room and felt his stomach churn in anxiety as he watched the militia auxiliaries
who made up his staff go about their labours。 The aged caretakers Cern and Votank were busy
maintaining the ancient parts of the press itself： Cern oiling the machine’s rollers； while Votank
topped up the ink reservoir ready for the next edition。 Nearby； head bobbing and his face moving in
involuntary tics； the feeble…minded cripple Shulen stumbled past them with a broom flailing
spasmodically in his hands as he attempted to sweep the floor。 Only the compositor Pheran was
without a task。 His features pinched in an expression somewhere between expectancy and
annoyance； he stood beside the empty expanse of the typesetting board and gazed back towards
Delias through the glass。 Then； seeing he had met the lieutenant’s eyes； Pheran raised a hand to
point at the chronometer hanging above the printing press in a gesture of mute accusation。
1500 hours； Delias thought； his heart sinking as his eyes followed the direction of Pheran’s bony
finger to glance at the chronometer。 We only have an hour now before I have to deliver the late
edition to Commissar Valkfor approval。 A single hour！ I must find something to write。 Anything！
Despairing； Delias returned his attention to the dozens of official papers piled in confusion
across his desk。 Among the jumbled mass of documents before him were copies of situation reports；
battlefield dispatches； casually statistics； terse communiqués； comms transcripts： between them
comprising a record of every event of consequence that had happened in the city of Broucheroc in
the past twelve hours。 Despite what seemed like hours now spent surveying the assembled weight of
information before him； Delias had found nothing there to suit his purpose。
There is no good news to report； he thought bleakly。 Today； the same as every other day； there is
only bad news and I cannot print that。 The commissar would have me shot on the spot。
His thoughts drifted back to the day two years previously when he had first heard the news that
he was being posted to the imposing edifice of the General Headquarters building in the centre of
Broucheroc。 At first； sure he was going to be rewarded with a staff assignment； he had rejoiced。
Then； when they brought him to the dingy basement print room to tell him it would be his task to
produce a twice…daily newsletter and propaganda sheet for the edification of the city’s defenders； his
heart had thrilled even more。 It had seemed the answer to all his prayers： a staff and an office of his
own； and more importantly a prestigious assignment that would keep him far from the fighting。 He
had soon learned however that the lot in life of an official propagandist was rarely a happy one。
Even less so when it was his duty to put a brave face to a conflict as prone to sudden reverses and
unmitigated disasters as was the war in Broucheroc。
We are losing this war； he thought； so lost in the depths of his own misery now he was barely
aware of any wider implication。 We are losing this war。 That is the reality and yet I have barely an
50
hour to find some small piece of good news that will allow the newsletter to pretend otherwise。 An
hour。 It just can’t be done。 I need more time。
Hearing the sound of his office door opening； Delias looked up to see Shulen shuffling through
the doorway。 Mouth working soundlessly； his body twitching with uncontrollable palsies； Shulen
tottered towards him with a wastebasket in his hands； the ugly scar left by the ork bullet that had
addled his brain clearly visible at his temple。
“What is it； Shulen？” Delias sighed。
“Cuh cuh cuh… cleaning！” Shulen said； stammering out a spray of spittle as he stooped to start
shovelling the papers littering Dellas’ desk into the wastebasket。
Aggravated； for a moment Delias idly wondered if there was a way of making Shulen bear the
blame for his problems。 I could tell Commissar Valk it is all Shulen’s fault； he thought。 That we
were just putting the finishing touches to the latest edition when Shulen blundered into the
typesetting hoard； knocking it to the floor and destroying all our work。 If the commissar decides to
shoot the useless oaf in retribution； I for one would not miss him。 Just as quickly he realised for the
plan to work the other members of his staff would have to support his story。 Pheran and the others
would not wear it。 They had always protected Shulen； coddling him like some idiot child； and would
be sure to oppose any attempt to make him the sacrificial goat。 Then； abruptly； Delias caught a
glimpse of the words written on one of the crumpled pieces of paper in Shulen’s hand and knew he
finally had the answer。
“Stop that！” he snapped at Shulen； reaching out with a metal ruler to rap his knuckles。 “Leave
the wastebasket here and go tell Pheran I will have the copy for tonight’s edition ready for him in
fifteen minutes。”
“Fuh fuh fuh…”
“Fifteen minutes；” Delias said； retrieving the paper he had seen in Shulen’s hand and smoothing
out the creases so he could read it。 “Now； get out of my sight。”
It was a contact report； reporting an ork assault in Sector 1…13 two and a half hours earlier。 What
interested Delias more was the attached account of the event that had presaged the assault。 A single
lander bearing a company’s worth of battlefield replacements had crashed in no…man’s land。
Reading it； Delias realised it was exactly what he had been looking for。 Granted； the course of
events would need a little rewriting。 To keep Commissar Valk happy what had been an entirely
futile waste of human life would need to become a resounding victory。 All the basic substance of
what he needed was there already： he would only have to change the details and the events in Sector
1…13 should suit his purposes admirably。 Yes； this is exactly what I need； Delias thought； quickly
running through a series of potential headlines in his mind。 Enemy Assault Defeated By Landing
From Space。 A Sector…Wide Breakthrough。 Orks Retreating in Disarray。 Then； the hairs rising at the
back of his neck； he thought of a new headline and knew he had cracked it。
Orks Defeated in Sector 1…13： Jumael 14th Victorious！
Smiling； Delias picked up a stylus and began to write a glowing report of the battle； carefully
embroidering the account with a variety of the stock words and phrases he had developed over the
years in the course of his duties。 Heroic resistance！ Brave and resolute defence！ A triumph of faith
and righteous fury over Xenos savagery！ Occasionally； as he paused to construct some new sentence
full of rhetorical zeal and fire； he felt the vague stirrings of his conscience troubling him but he
ignored it。 It was not his fault he was forced to lie and twist the facts； he told himself。 The truth was
always the first casualty in warfare。 As an information officer； sometimes it was his task to be
creative：